by Garon Whited
“What’s next?” BT asked, still focused on me. He didn’t like the report, but he was fascinated by it in the same way people are fascinated by a car crash.
“I can’t tell for sure, not without more study or some advanced machinery. I’m still thinking consciousness isn’t too far away for them. At some point, I think it safe to assume these screamers will get together, maybe a dozen at first, or a hundred, whatever the critical threshold is, and you’ll have a group of zombies capable of thinking.”
“Safe to say once that happens we find ourselves licking the stinky-pudding end of the stick.” Talbot growled.
“Stinky-pudding, that mean what I think it does?” BT asked. “Forget I asked, of course it does. Great, another visual.” BT flipped him off. BT went on for a moment, highly upset. I assume he was stuck with a mental image. Pity. He seemed to love pudding.
“These shriekers are the real problem,” I went on, gesturing at my captive. “They already possess a fair amount of intelligence. More than any of the others, anyway. It can register pain, for one thing, which implies it has a sense of identity. ‘I’ feel pain, but there has to be an ‘I’ to feel it, if that makes sense. This one stopped screaming because it hurts to do so. I’m not sure if it realizes the screams aren’t going to summon help or not, but it knows screaming hurts.”
“The group intelligence you’re talking about, any idea the limitations?” Winters asked.
“Depends on how many there are. At first, you wouldn’t have anything too bright, but once it realized it could get smarter by adding more members, it might also start evolving big, zombie brains to act as central processors. The zombie horde could become more intelligent than any human simply because it would evolve faster than humans.”
“The main thing in humans’ favor is this brainiac,” I nudged the shrieker with the toe of my boot, “doesn’t appear to have a lot of memory.” I patted the hilt and said, “Firebrand has been listening and it doesn’t seem to remember anything beyond the simple Pavlovian response level.”
“The weapon? Your weapon told you this?” Tommy asked.
“Psychic sword,” I reminded him. “You want me to go into it?” I asked, giving Talbot a look.
“No, just continue,” he sighed, resignedly.
“Good idea. It knows enough that if it attacks, say, a red thing—”
“What kind of red thing?” Gary called, echoing. Talbot facepalmed for a moment. I nodded in sympathy. Talbot was having a tough time. First, there’s a monster with swords, then there’s a bunch of backtalk from his subordinates. The man had a good tolerance for weirdness and I felt bad about straining it.
He’s also not sure if he needs to try gunning you down, Firebrand added.
Oh?
I keep getting flashes of thought about this Payne person. The only other vampire he knows, I think. Not a good vampire. More the Demon King sort.
I can see why he’s on the fence about trying to blow me away. I’m surprised he hasn’t.
He’s a softie, Boss. He likes people, and not for their flavor. Although he’s not sure if he likes you or not. He keeps thinking he should shoot you in the face if it all goes sideways.
Thank you for your opinion.
Anytime!
“It’s just an example,” I called back. “How about we say it’s a tank?”
“A red tank?” Gary asked.
“This isn’t happening,” Talbot muttered. Louder, he added, “Gary, you say one more thing while you’re supposed to be watching our back and I’m going to call in to have you evac’d. Clear enough?”
“I’ve just never seen a red tank is all.”
“Please go on,” Talbot said, ignoring Gary.
“Okay, so, our shrieker attacks, for this argument and this argument only, a red tank,” I began, for Gary’s benefit. “If this tank wiped out almost the entire group with only this one surviving, it might recruit another gang of zombies and attack. After a couple of attempts, it’s possible it could retain the memory—develop the conditioned response—that to attack a red tank only results in too many zombie deaths. It would be conditioned to avoid red tanks rather than attack them.”
“That could be huge,” Talbot agreed. Through the whole conversation, he kept his weapon on me, which I thought was a bit rude. “We saw something like this early on, but if we could make them see humanity as too difficult to attack, that could be the turning point.”
“We’re—that is, I’m not sure quite yet if it would be a true memory or a conditioned response. If enough get together to form a sapient entity, it won’t matter. But yes, either one could be quite useful.
“Speaking of useful,” I went on, eyeing him up and down, “I can see you keep wondering what to do with me, Michael Talbot. Let me suggest that while you are uncertain about whether or not I am more valuable as an ally than I am dangerous as a potential enemy, what I really am is a powerful unknown. I also dislike being shot. It annoys me dreadfully, and the only thing it will directly kill is any chance of me being your ally.”
“That’s a lot of words to say not to fuck with you,” Talbot observed.
“I thought I should share my viewpoint.”
Whose viewpoint, Boss?
Hush. I’m intimidating in a tactful fashion.
Isn’t that a contradiction?
Only for a dragon.
Oh, you’re funny.
“Here’s my problem,” Talbot explained. “I can’t bring you back to our base. There are way too many unknowns here. You say you’re from another world and I’m provisionally prepared to accept that as the least wacked of possible explanations. Do you mean any harm here?”
“Nope. Just passing through, really, and wondered why the place seemed abandoned. Then I got curious about your zombies.”
“Are you empathetic enough to see how strange this is for us?”
“Oh, hell yes,” I assured him. “This is unusual even for me. I’ve never encountered nonmagical zombies before.”
BT bit his lip but didn’t say anything. It cost him. He had what he thought was a fantastic wisecrack and it was difficult to chew.
“How long you planning on staying?” Talbot continued. “I don’t want to sound like the sheriff of every small TV town…”
“But,” I encouraged, having some idea what came next.
“Not going to lie, you make me concerned, like you’re a giant hornet nest a half-mile from school. Everything is all fine and dandy until one of them little kiddies gets it in his head to throw a rock, then a thousand little hells pop loose. That make sense?”
“The analogy has its merits.”
Don’t poke the nightlord? Firebrand suggested.
Consider how badly this could have gone. Is he wrong?
Um. Now you mention it, the analogy has its merits.
“Umm, guys?” Gary called as he approached.
“What did I tell you?” Talbot demanded. He slung his rifle and looked ready to dribble Gary across the court on the way back to his post.
“You’re going to want to see this.”
Firebrand? Do I hear zombies shuffling our way?
Yeah, I think so. I don’t hear the rest too well, but there are a lot of screamers, so there must be a lot of the others.
Any indication they’re thinking?
No. They’re linking, yes, but it’s only a… communication. Sharing. They aren’t… there aren’t enough of them to wake up. They’re not conscious, but I think they have enough to do it if they only knew how to try.
One more evolutionary step, hmm?
Maybe. Or another hundred screamers.
Why are they heading toward us?
I’m not sure. I think the fog is starting to lift, and the humans need lights to see by.
Dang. I should have thought of that. If one screamer gets interested in the flashlights waving around in the gym…
Yeah, pretty much. I’m not sure, but it seems to mesh well with the tone of the screamers’ gestalt.
“How many?” Talbot asked, calmly.
“I don’t know. Maybe all of them?”
“BT, Winters, on me.” They headed out while I waited. Tommy stayed in his corner, staring at me over his weapon. I smiled at him and he didn’t like it one bit. He was sweating and it wasn’t the humidity. I felt Firebrand smile at him and he liked it even less. His eyes flicked behind me for an instant and I wondered if my shadow was behaving. It might have waved. If so, no one else noticed.
“That was fast,” I heard from the gym. No doubt they were looking outside to size up the problem.
“Lock that. What about the other exit?” I heard the dull thump of semi-inflated rubber hitting the floor and the clatter of equipment. “Supply closet. Great.”
“I’ll check the way we came in,” Winters decided, and hurried off. He was back almost immediately. “Got close to fifty on that side. From the looks of it, I’d say they’re sniffing around some used foil packs.”
Tommy checked his pack and didn’t like what he failed to find.
“I don’t know how they fell out!” he declared.
Talbot’s response was unbecoming an officer, I’m afraid. Well, this wasn’t exactly covered by The Book.
“There’s windows in the locker rooms we can fit through,” Winters suggested.
“Anyone know our mileage to get here?”
“Fifty-one miles,” Winters said. “Why?”
“What’s our artillery range?” Talbot asked.
“You insane? —Sir? Lucky for us, only about eighteen miles. No way do I want people I don’t know raining down shells that close to us.”
Privately, I agreed with him, all the way up through the ranks to generally. Friendly fire isn’t.
“Just a thought,” Talbot muttered.
“Don’t let him upset you, Talbot. At least you had one. That’s a rarity.”
“Thanks, BT. I like it better when we’re on base. All you assholes pretend like I’m in charge.”
They moved as they spoke and stood together in the horrors of the girls’ locker room. I avoided the place, myself. I don’t have to breathe, but the place needed a power washer, at least. Maybe sand blasting. I wouldn’t rule out napalm. Anyone who thinks girls are all clean and neat and band-box fresh all the time has never ventured into the Well of Horrors. Adolescent fantasies would be much different if the boys were taken on a tour.
I stayed where I was and waited. I knew what they were doing. I felt their presence with tendrils, sensed a faint hint of intentions. The frosted windows were high up, above the wall-mounted lockers. Winters tried to open one.
“You’re not going to fit,” Talbot decided. I agreed. If I shucked out of my armor, I could squeeze through easily enough, but most of them were big, strong-looking guys.
“Winters, give me the phone.” There was a click and a hiss, followed by, “Haven, this is Tribulation. Repeat. Haven, this is Tribulation.”
“Your call signs are getting worse,” BT pointed out.
“At this point, we’ll be lucky if they respond at all,” Winters said.
“Go ahead, Tribulation,” crackled the radio.
“Haven, we’ve found ourselves in a bit of a jam.” I heard the sigh from the other end. I would almost swear I heard, “Again?” from the radio, but it was too faint to be sure.
“Tribulation, birds are grounded in this fog. We can’t get you an extraction.”
I consulted Bronze. Yes, it was still foggy and misty. The lights were exceptionally pretty in it, but they were probably not visible for more than a mile or three. I silently blamed myself for not paying more attention to the gathering crowd and hoped these guys weren’t about to be ripped apart and eaten by zombies.
“I’m looking for a drone strike or two,” Talbot responded.
“Hold one, Tribulation. You’ll have to wait. Over.”
“What does he think I’ve been doing?” he growled. A new voice answered a moment later.
“Lieutenant Talbot, you probably want to keep your finger off the transmit button when you’re not following protocol.” The new voice sounded much more authoritarian.
“Sorry, sir,” Talbot replied.
For the record, he wasn’t.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re stuck in a gym, no way out except through roughly seven, eight hundred zombies, sir. The majority are clustered around our beacon in the sky. In fact, striking that—and only that—would be optimum. Hopefully, we’ll be able to do clean up at that point.”
“Are you safe?”
“For the moment sir. They’re amassing bulkers to assault our position soon. Plenty of shriekers in the mix, as well.”
“And the light? Any idea who caused the trouble?”
He hesitated only an instant. I felt him looking in my direction through the walls. I got up and strolled quietly to the door of the girls’ locker room, deliberately not breathing.
“Sir, I’m not sure as to the who, but there’s some whys. There are some zombies in the gym, looks like some experiments were being performed. Luckily, whoever was playing doctor left some notes.”
“Anything we can use?”
“Does my answer determine if we get help or not?” he asked. I wouldn’t have asked, personally, so as not to potentially annoy the man with an armed drone, but I would have certainly thought it.
“Of course not. I’ve already authorized deployment. ETA is fifteen minutes. Lieutenant, you’re going to want to find some cover. This one is armed with four Hellfires.”
I sat down on a bench in the locker room, quietly, so as not to interrupt. I don’t like being near ground zero for anything deserving of a ground zero.
“Roger that, sir. As for the notes, there’s not a bunch of hard science but some compelling theories. Some we’re aware of, but some of the insight is new.” At the Colonel’s prompting, he spent the next five minutes going over everything I told them. I approved. Their CO wasn’t writing them off, and Talbot wasn’t assuming it. Talbot was making sure the information got back even if things went wrong. Good guys. If I had Knights of Shadow, I might have been tempted to ask about joint maneuvers. As it was, I only waited until the end before asking about the missiles.
“Excuse me—not to interrupt—but am I to understand you’re calling in an airstrike here?”
“Not here, specifically. Where the light is.”
“I’m not sure the distance is significant.”
“Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you set up your little Frankenstein shop here,” he growled, which I thought was unfair. Until tonight, I didn’t know any people would care, much less send armed drones. How was I supposed to see this coming?
“Don’t worry so much,” he went on. “The drone operators are pretty good at their job.”
“Sir? Is it Andres or Verdan at the helm tonight?” Winters asked.
Talbot’s face blanked and he seemed profoundly disturbed. His comment was earthy and profane. BT asked what the problem was.
“Verdan is my neighbor,” Talbot growled. “Henry, my stupid mutt, for some reason can’t stand him. More likely his mode of transportation. Keeps pissing on Verdan’s motorcycle and has actually dropped a few deuces around it as well. Verdan came into work a couple of times with Henry’s offal peppered all over. The guy is actually pretty cool, but I think the machine is so loud it’s disturbed some of Henry’s naps.”
“Your dog is tired after his naps, man, and because one of his siestas is disturbed we now have to worry about getting pelted by Hellfires.”
I was firmly with BT on this. Neither of us liked the idea.
“I mostly smoothed it over,” Talbot replied, defensively.
“Sorry, LT,” Winters said. “I was there for one of your ‘smoothing over’ sessions. Smearing it into his uniform with a wet paper towel doesn’t count as damage control.”
“It’s the thought that counts, right?”
“Yeah, I’m sure that was exac
tly what he was thinking all day as he took whiffs of Henry’s refuse,” BT countered.
“Well, if Henry dislikes Verdan now, what do you think the big dog would do if he offed his food delivery system?”
“That’s actually a good point. I can see that dog dismantling the bike with that maw of his. Ha! I do like when you make sense, every now and again.” BT clapped him hard enough on the shoulder he nearly pitched over.
“You realize that hurts, right?” Talbot asked, rubbing the injured area.
“Every time brother, every time. I consider it recompense for all the crap I have to go through with you.”
“Alright people, we have five minutes. Gary,” Talbot called, waving him over from his post by the door, “come on. I want everyone in the weight room.”
I went with them. The weight room was as good a place as any and had less stink.
As we hurried across the gym floor, Gary decided to switch cassettes in his Walkman. Why he had a Walkman, I’m not sure. Maybe they didn’t have MP3 players in this world. Maybe it was a classic. I never asked.
As he hurried, he found out dead zombies leak. On a slick gym floor, zombie spinal fluid is like motor oil. He went “Whoa!” and “wham” and “Aargh!” as he came down hard. At least the Walkman broke his fall. Talbot helped him up while the rest of us filed into the weight room.
The fire doors Gary was watching, now closed, made a heavy, thudding boom!
I looked intently through them, already knowing what it was. Big zombies. The bulkers. Still, they were limited by the strength of flesh and bone—a lot of flesh and bone, granted—but still mortal. The wall was concrete, the doors were those double fire doors, made of steel. It would take—
Boom!
—not all that long, I decided.
They redeployed in the face of the immediate situation and formed a line, side-by-side, covering the outer door.
“Think they’ll get in before the drone strike?” Winters asked.
“Case of beer says they do,” Talbot replied.
“I’ll take that bet,” BT countered.
“How will you collect?”
“Shut up.”
Talbot checked his watch, marking time until the drone ETA. The door gave under a particularly vicious thud! We could see outside through the gaps.
